


My customer who lives in the Sump (AKA Sumpthing to look at)

by FishLeather



Category: Original Work
Genre: Altered Mental States, At least in my opinion, F/F, Horror, Mind Control, OC Creature, Other, any more tags would spoil it lol, bad business dealmaking, but thats my calling card now i guess, i guess, so incredibly strange and vague and dreamlike, technically i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 04:33:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20500946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FishLeather/pseuds/FishLeather
Summary: A Sump is a thing on Long Island, a deep pit lined with sand and used to promote rainwater drainage. They're rather large, and mandated for every certain-number-of-homes.





	My customer who lives in the Sump (AKA Sumpthing to look at)

**Author's Note:**

> A Sump is a thing on Long Island, a deep pit lined with sand and used to promote rainwater drainage. They're rather large, and mandated for every certain-number-of-homes.

The forest was cold and damp, the hard ground littered with wild, thorny vines. I split from the trail at the marked log, pushing past the low branches of young trees, carefully descending until until I was surrounded by the smell of mud and fungus, and on 3 sides faced with steep sump walls. This particular sump had been decommissioned, no longer needed once the former-village it provided water for had been rezoned as a protected habitat. Over the years it's chain link fences collapsed in the wind and rain, or were swallowed by eager plantlife. The packs of ink ribbons chafe in my pockets, as I head for the pallet-wood door of an old shack near the edge.

Originally it had been a shower curtain, but snatches of memory bubble to the surface, of a day spent pushing and pulling, dragging an entire shipping pallet into the sump, whole. I can't remember what I got for that. My knuckles rap against the simple door, leaving a sound that rings in my head for minutes after it opens. The-- it-- I--

She-- she looks behind me to check for anything large, and I feel my ears burn. I wonder how ink could possibly be enough, ever enough, and then I look her in the eyes and she meets the gaze and--

Have you ever gone swimming when it was too cold to be safe? It becomes very hard to breathe, but if you live, it becomes invigorating. Your heart beats twice as hard, twice as loud, everything feels a little tingly and eventually a little heavy and you know its time to get out of the water but the shore is already gone. So all you can do is float, let the waves move you as you see the sky and feel very very small.

And then I'm sitting on a bench inside with just a little bit of vertigo and the burning afterimage of a gaze that wasn't human. I try to look at her again, but my eyes stubbornly refuse to focus correctly.

"Not yet."  
I immediately look at the floor.  
"What did you bring, then? Something small, it looks like."  
I stand up shakily, and dig the 4 small boxes out of my pockets. I place them in a single short stack on the end table next to the bench, hoping the 'not yet' can become 'yet', soon. I learned early that words don't matter here. If something needed explaining to be useful, it wasn't a good gift. Offering. Trade. It wasn't a very valuable thing to trade in a deal, I thought, gently shaking my head. She was very powerful after all, and I needed to make sure I made the right impression as a reliable source of goods that was not going to be controlled. Being in sales was difficult but the rewards were-- were-- 

My eyes refocused, and I mentally traced the scuffed linoleum tiles with them. She came to inspect one of the boxes, and I heard her taking the circular case out of the box, opening it to reveal the ribbon, and even sniffing the ribbon for good measure before reassembling the storage and putting it back on the table. She puts a hand on my shoulder, and I know it's almost time. I try to control my breathing, I think last time I might have passed out from excitement at the deal or something. What an incredibly stupid thing to do. It's the only explanation though, because I couldn't for the life of me remember what happened last week after I handed over some money and asked to see what was on offer from her end.

Though she had every right to keep me waiting, being the more powerful individual in this business relationship, she went to the window, and checked for anyone outside. She did this at each window, before briefly opening the door to check there, too. Then, a second round, closing the sheer curtains over each window for relative privacy. She was so thoughtful, wanting me to be able to see with the light. It must be why she's my favorite customer. Must be.

Finally, she sat down on the bench next to me, and looked at me from just inches away. I glanced at her, or meant to, but I couldn't break away. Something didn't feel right, something was wrong, but her hand found its way to the side of my face, and those thoughts were being pushed down and hushed like the nonsense they were. Every tense muscle relaxed, and though I kept sitting upright, I started leaning towards her, like a tree falling in super-slow-motion. I could trust her. My best business contact. She had never sold me faulty merchandise. She had never-- never sold me any-- what was she selling? How was I getting paid?

I tried again to break my gaze, my breath quickening, I managed to stand as she rose with me, her hand still caressing my cheek. Unable to look away, I could see something coming in that stare, almost like a deer in the headlights. Whatever it was, I made sure to be as open as possible, unlocking each gate in my mind as-- no, no I needed to protect myself from--

Then she was sniffing my face. Smelling it. The confusion lasted just long enough that my guard was still down when she slid her other hand up to my face, lifting her thumbs to my temples as she suddenly inhaled sharply.

I could practically feel the first screw come loose on my poor attempt at mental defenses. Minutes later, I was softer than putty in her hands-- something closer to water or oil or air, each time I exhaled it lifted more of the worrying and fear off of me, and the same happened each time she inhaled. Eventually she pulled back, stepping away so she was no longer touching me at all, and just... grinned. I smiled back dreamily, swaying a little with the effort of standing up without anyone to lean on.

"You can look away if you want, now."   
I didn't really want to, but I looked behind myself for something to grab on to, not wanting to fall down. If my soul was milk, she might have just skimmed off the cream and drank it. Nothing wrong with that. She's allowed to. She's my favorite customer.


End file.
